Page 123 of Any Port in a Storm

“To Dublin.” He’s considering me seriously now. “I’m planning a trip for the end of summer, before the fall semester starts, and I know you’ve always said you’d like to go.” He swallows hard. “I’d love to show you around.”

My insides are swirling, melting completely, thanks to how tenderly he’s regarding me right now. “You want me to come home with you?”

“I want to be with you everywhere,” he says.

“Wow.” I run my fingers through his hair. “You were right.”

“Right?”

“I guess you can declare your love more than once.”

THIRTY-FIVE

now

Nick’s family sets the virtual memorial for two weeks out, and having something concrete in place seems to make him feel both better and worse. Better, in the sense that he knows closure is coming; worse in the sense that things are starting to feel real, and his depression is settling out into patterns that look a lot like anger.

Anger with the nursing home for failing to properly test its staff, which is apparently how Covid infiltrated the facility in the first place. Anger that they didn’t immediately send his grandfather out to the hospital for tests, especially given his history of pneumonia. And, most devastating of all, anger that Nick himself wasn’t there—maybe to stop it, or just to witness it all unfolding so he could cling to the illusion of control.

He’s hurting, and it’s breaking me a little more every day. I’m continuing to putter around in the shadows of his grief, picking up the slack for him so he can get through his lectures in one piece. I’ve even abandoned my minimalist tendencies in the kitchen to try to boost his spirits—I’ve been cooking everything from gumbo to waffles to a poorly executed but well-intentioned roast, all in hopes of coaxing his smile back out.

I think he appreciates the gestures—he always says thank you, or offers me a loose hug when I tell him dinner’s ready. But it’s like he’s gone somewhere else, and I can’t quite reach him right now.

We haven’t talked much since our fight on the balcony, either. I’m bursting to tell him what I’ve decided, but that resolution is clouded by the two interviews I’ve added to my calendar. All things considered, I feel like it might be better to see what transpires with those opportunities before telling Nick I’m ready to commit to him. Because if I get the Briarford University job, that choice will condemn us to an indefinite separation, and I’m not sure I could handle that.

Also because of everything that’s going on, I decide not to tell him about the interviews. At least, not yet. I don’t want to complicate what already feels like an incredibly fraught situation.

A week after Nick’s grandfather dies, I meet with the hiring committee from Briarford. I can tell they like what I have to say, because they ask me a few questions and then start speaking in modal verbs—my office will be near the campus center, I can take off two weeks in my first year. They make the role sound beyond exciting, and, by the end of the call, I find myself wondering why I was even considering the museum job in the first place.

That night, I cook salmon and zucchini. Our grocery deliveries have been a little hit-or-miss lately, and what I’d actually ordered was asparagus, but I guess the store was out, or our shopper decided that we actually needed something from the opposite end of the alphabet.

Either way, I figure, it’s one of Nick’s favorites plus something with vitamins, so it’s a good choice. I’m a little worried about him. He seems to have lost his appetite, and he’s been sleeping a lot more than usual.

I guess depression will do that to you.

“Do you want to watch Tiger King later?” I ask over dinner. Nothing like the hijinks of a mentally ill showman to raise the spirits.

Nick shrugs. “If you do.”

“It’s honestly up to you.” I spear a piece of zucchini, which shriveled up a bit on cooking, and consider him in the track lighting. “You seem like you could use a little cheering up, is all.”

“I’m fine. See?” He forces an artificially chipper affect.

The expression is so ridiculous that I actually burst out laughing. “Convincing though that was, I still have the sense you’re not quite yourself these days.”

“Everything’s been a lot lately,” he agrees.

“Want to talk about it?”

He looks down, pushing food around his plate. “My mom asked if I wanted to say a few words during the memorial.”

“Like a eulogy?”

“I guess. Or like a poem or something.”

I lay down my fork. “And do you want to?”

“Maybe?” His eyes, normally so bright, have lost their luster. “I want to honor my grandfather. But I’m not sure I’d be able to do it. On camera, with everyone watching. I think it might be too much for me.”